Getting Back To Nature Is Rough
Over the years, I've become soft. Spending so much time in the wild lately has taught me how far off course I had gone- on so many levels. I thought of myself as a spiritual person all my life, but now I see how I lost that raw connection. I've been away from that vast creative presence for a long time; long enough to forget what was important and to take too much for granted. I had no idea, either. I'd let myself believe I was doing all right. I'd let myself believe in "the normal".
Nature is the most honest and crude stage of life and death, and it's too big of a force to take for granted. But I did. I got used to floors and smooth surfaces to sit on, flushing away anything disagreeable into some space where I couldn't see it anymore, and being closed off to the sounds outside my walls at night as I slept. When I stepped back into the woods, I encountered things that could kill me instantly. I was at the whim of the weather. There was nothing to separate me from the cold, wet ground covered in sharp stobs and vines that threatened my every step. It took me and my 70 year old mother two weeks to build a bridge over the creek and set up a camp that would hold up through the unpredictable mountain weather. It feels good to be able to sit down on something that doesn't require the eternal flexing of tired muscles to stay upright. Sleeping on a real bed in the tent feels incredible to my sore body in the evenings. And the water...
The weather forced us to secure the bridge in the rain today with chains. The creek is rising and gushing with such energy that the whole thing could be washed away if it gets any higher. (And that's a solid bridge, too.) I was sitting by that creek the other day when the sun was out and everything was calmer. The longer I sat there, the more I realized the creek was its own entity, and it was part of something larger. I couldn't see its source, but I felt it. And I felt it had its own soul- which was a part of an even higher power. Everything was instantly connected, and I was a part of its ebb and flow just like anything else. I relied on this entity, and it relied on me. We were part of each other. We flowed together. This transcended into the ground it moved across, and all the people walking on its "back". We are all one, and every living thing can sense one another. I believe that creek knows what's going on around it, and I believe everything that lives in that hollow down there, even those more stationary life forms, can understand me and my language and movements on some subtle level. I have never felt so connected to something so big in a long time, and it feels both amazing and terrifying. Respect is the only word that penetrates this emotion at all.
Every night I've had to get used to hearing something getting killed. The predators here are fierce. There's nothing separating me from those sounds (or those claws) except a thin layer of nylon. I have a pistol by my pillow I'm a little terrified of, and I throw down a cup or two of wine to try and relax so I can sleep through it. I then wake up early each morning to the most beautiful dawn I've ever seen as the sun rises over the water's edge. The day shift is alive at daybreak with a thousand birds singing their songs and a tribe of turkeys running through my camp.
I could never understand the idea of anyone feeling boredom in the middle of the wilderness. There's just way too much going on. It's more dramatic than the separate world humans have crafted. I wonder if that's why so many people are drawn to drama and frustration. Maybe most of humanity has fallen into routine, and routine isn't that good for us. It certainly doesn't keep you on your toes.
Nature is the most honest and crude stage of life and death, and it's too big of a force to take for granted. But I did. I got used to floors and smooth surfaces to sit on, flushing away anything disagreeable into some space where I couldn't see it anymore, and being closed off to the sounds outside my walls at night as I slept. When I stepped back into the woods, I encountered things that could kill me instantly. I was at the whim of the weather. There was nothing to separate me from the cold, wet ground covered in sharp stobs and vines that threatened my every step. It took me and my 70 year old mother two weeks to build a bridge over the creek and set up a camp that would hold up through the unpredictable mountain weather. It feels good to be able to sit down on something that doesn't require the eternal flexing of tired muscles to stay upright. Sleeping on a real bed in the tent feels incredible to my sore body in the evenings. And the water...
The weather forced us to secure the bridge in the rain today with chains. The creek is rising and gushing with such energy that the whole thing could be washed away if it gets any higher. (And that's a solid bridge, too.) I was sitting by that creek the other day when the sun was out and everything was calmer. The longer I sat there, the more I realized the creek was its own entity, and it was part of something larger. I couldn't see its source, but I felt it. And I felt it had its own soul- which was a part of an even higher power. Everything was instantly connected, and I was a part of its ebb and flow just like anything else. I relied on this entity, and it relied on me. We were part of each other. We flowed together. This transcended into the ground it moved across, and all the people walking on its "back". We are all one, and every living thing can sense one another. I believe that creek knows what's going on around it, and I believe everything that lives in that hollow down there, even those more stationary life forms, can understand me and my language and movements on some subtle level. I have never felt so connected to something so big in a long time, and it feels both amazing and terrifying. Respect is the only word that penetrates this emotion at all.
Every night I've had to get used to hearing something getting killed. The predators here are fierce. There's nothing separating me from those sounds (or those claws) except a thin layer of nylon. I have a pistol by my pillow I'm a little terrified of, and I throw down a cup or two of wine to try and relax so I can sleep through it. I then wake up early each morning to the most beautiful dawn I've ever seen as the sun rises over the water's edge. The day shift is alive at daybreak with a thousand birds singing their songs and a tribe of turkeys running through my camp.
I could never understand the idea of anyone feeling boredom in the middle of the wilderness. There's just way too much going on. It's more dramatic than the separate world humans have crafted. I wonder if that's why so many people are drawn to drama and frustration. Maybe most of humanity has fallen into routine, and routine isn't that good for us. It certainly doesn't keep you on your toes.
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